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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24174727">Don’t Ask Her on a Straight Tequila Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance'>FrenchTwistResistance</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, I just want caos to be a sitcom where hot middle-aged ladies kiss</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:34:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,563</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24174727</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Drinking and dancing out in Scarsdale Unincorporated...</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hilda Spellman/Zelda Spellman</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Don’t Ask Her on a Straight Tequila Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>April group chat challenge: Spellcest Drunk Texts.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Scarsdale Unincorporated is a nothing of a place, barely a sign on the freeway pointing vaguely in its direction claiming “14 miles via county road.”</p><p>If one takes that pothole-ridden stretch of asphalt on a wing and a prayer, Scarsdale emerges in the hills and mist as a smattering of ramshackle houses, a grain elevator, a post office, a transmission repair shop, a bar.</p><p>It’s a nothing of a place, and the bar is a shithole with the worst Long Island Iced Tea in the county, but somehow this bar has figured out how to attract very good local bands.</p><p>Every weekend in Scarsdale Unincorporated, there’s a different very good band—western swing, gothic metal, country, blues, Cajun, folk, Prince covers—playing at Jeb’s Watering Hole, and there’s a good crowd drinking bad liquor and dancing until closing time.</p><p>It’s a Cajun band the night Zelda drinks a few too many tequila shots and gets herself into a pickle.</p><p>xxx</p><p>It had started off pretty regular, pretty normal.</p><p>Hilda and Zelda are sitting across from each other at the desk in the office. It’s late afternoon on a quiet Friday, and they’re both balancing their own respective spreadsheets—Zelda’s updating interment details, and Hilda’s emailing about delinquent payments. </p><p>Accounts payable, accounts receivable. Accounts accounts accounts. All week long all paperwork and no bodies to disembowel.</p><p>The slow trickle has left Zelda antsy. She’s been antsy all week and had semi-successfully managed to channel her restless energy into other ventures until this moment. </p><p>But now she is at the apex of antsy. She says to Hilda,</p><p>“Why don’t we go out to Scarsdale tonight?”</p><p>And Hilda is immediately suspicious. </p><p>Of course she’s been aware that Zelda has been antsy. She is an empath after all and not stupid besides. But usually this sort of antsiness is dealt with in a different way—flogging and confession, some masochistic religious ritual that she isn’t  expected to participate in. It’s usually a private antsiness, but Zelda is making it public by suggesting this—is inviting scrutiny or is enlisting help or is requesting backup. It’s suspicious any way she slices it.</p><p>“Scarsdale Unincorporated?” Hilda says.</p><p>Zelda rolls her eyes, says,</p><p>“What other Scarsdale is there?” She pauses and then continues, “I feel like drinking and dancing.”</p><p>Hilda peruses Zelda’s rigid, antsy frame. Drinking and dancing. They have plenty of booze and records at home. And even if they didn’t, there are plenty of bars in Greendale, and even if there weren’t, there are plenty of bars in Riverdale. If Zelda wants to drive all the way out to Scarsdale, she is in a particular mood. And that is a dangerous mood.</p><p>“Scarsdale. A little far for my tastes,” Hilda says.</p><p>“Oh don’t be a prig. Jeb’s got a Cajun band tonight. And you love accordion,” Zelda says.</p><p>xxx</p><p>They arrive just as the band is setting up, plugging things in and testing microphones. “Check. Sibilance. Check.”</p><p>Zelda had driven them here, but Hilda knows she’ll have to be the one to drive them home afterward, especially as she watches Zelda sidle up to the bar and order a shot of tequila. </p><p>They settle in on stools next to each other, thighs pressed together. The shot glass slides down the bar. </p><p>And Zelda grabs her arm. She licks a swath of Hilda’s inner wrist and then sprinkles salt onto the moistened flesh, thrusts a lime slice into Hilda’s mouth, rind side in. Drinks, licks, and then just barely brushes their lips together as she sucks on the lime slice in Hilda’s mouth.</p><p>Hilda knows from the look in Zelda’s eyes this will be the first of many.</p><p>Zelda holds the lime slice between her teeth for a long second and then discards it into her empty shot glass, turns abruptly, saunters over to the jukebox without a word.</p><p>Hilda re-evaluates: If she were to remain sober she’d find whatever Zelda wants to get up to tonight insufferable, and even though Zelda would be hammered she would know she was being found insufferable, and that might result in Hilda’s getting hammered in one of several different ways, one of them quite literal. The whole night would be much more enjoyable for both of them if she could find them an alternate ride home.</p><p>Sure, there are plenty of obscure locations between here and there where they could possibly stop and pass out in the car until one of them is fit to drive. Plenty of opportunities in the rural night. But that option is fraught with kinked necks and hangover fights.</p><p>It’d be better if… </p><p>Oh. </p><p>Oh yes. Their yard boy. Seth. He mows for them once a week. And he lives around here. He is not yet of drinking age. And he is a good boy, takes ap history, is the kicker for the football team. He could drive them home. He could be bought. Hilda opens a text message to him on her phone so that she can be prepared for later. </p><p>Because she might as well might as well. </p><p>If Zelda’s including her in her shenanigans and if they’re this far from home and if they’re drinking and dancing at Jeb’s Watering Hole… well. Scarsdale is Scarsdale.</p><p>xxx</p><p>Zelda’s five shots in, galloping Hilda across the sawdust to strains of fiddle and accordion and pidgin French she’s mumblingly and clunkily translating into Hilda’s four-shots-in ear: something about love, something about the bayou, something about cheating, something about a back porch, something about murder, something about a fais do-do.</p><p>The song ends, and Zelda deposits Hilda onto a stool, orders them more drinks.</p><p>At this point, Zelda has abandoned the ritual of the body shot except for the part where they share a lime slice. And each consecutive lime slice has become more and more irrelevant. Now Zelda’s just knocking back a tequila shot and afterward kissing Hilda outright, humming and smiling into her mouth.</p><p>Scarsdale is a nothing of a place, but it is Scarsdale. And there are eyes on them as they return to the dance floor when the next song begins.</p><p>They’re drunkenly two-stepping, and Hilda’s lurching closer to her. Zelda’s right hand is wandering up underneath Hilda’s blouse, just skimming the top of a hip. Zelda’s face is buried in soft blonde curls smelling of coconut and sweat.</p><p>But when Zelda is overwhelmed by the scent and feel of her sister against her and raises her head to clear her thoughts, she sees too many sets of pupils focused on them for her comfort. Dark, investigating, penetrating pupils.</p><p>Scarsdale is Scarsdale. </p><p>She’d known Scarsdale is Scarsdale, but she’d wanted Scarsdale to be Scarsdale in the way she wanted it to be rather than the way it is. She’d wanted to be able to be loose and free here. Let go, rid herself of her antsiness. Have fun. Enjoy herself and enjoy Hilda. </p><p>But these eyes on them. They’re certainly enjoying. Enjoying voyeuristically and imposingly. There’s a lot of expectation there in all those eyes. There’s a lot of judgment there in all those eyes.</p><p>And antsy Zelda translates and transforms very easily into angry Zelda.</p><p>And antsy Zelda under the influence of tequila is even more easily angry Zelda.</p><p>Zelda’s cheek is hot against Hilda’s as they dance so close together.</p><p>A man taps Zelda’s shoulder, says,</p><p>“May I cut in?”</p><p>Hilda flutters her lashes up at both of them. Zelda scowls.</p><p>xxx</p><p>Hilda’s comfortably buzzing. She’s cozy and warm and blank. She’s had enough to drink that she’s absolutely content and in love with everyone and everything.</p><p>Zelda’s cheek is hot against Hilda’s as they dance so close together.</p><p>A man taps Zelda’s shoulder, says,</p><p>“May I cut in?”</p><p>Hilda flutters her lashes up at both of them. She can’t imagine enjoying dancing with anyone as much as she’s enjoying dancing with Zelda. But he looks nice, too. Maybe they could all dance together.</p><p>She vaguely registers that Zelda is scowling.</p><p>If Zelda doesn’t like him, she doesn’t either.</p><p>Zelda’s voice is murky above her, as though it’s filtered through several layers of brackish water.</p><p>There’s an altercation, an argument. Zelda’s index finger at his chest. His hands gesticulating wildly. Something about “you think you could do better,” something about “a real man,” something about “why don’t you prove it.”</p><p>xxx</p><p>Before she even knows it, Hilda is standing out back of Jeb’s. It’s a warm, moist night, so she’s not clutching at herself to conserve her own heat. She’s just there, staring.</p><p>There’s a herd of goats. There’s mud. There’s fog in the dark night.</p><p>And there’s Zelda, stripped to her underwear, standing at the fence line. At the opposite fence line there’s the man who had wanted to cut in, shirtless now.</p><p>Hilda blinks.</p><p>Oh.</p><p>Oh yes.</p><p>Tequila makes Zelda want to get naked and fight people.</p><p>xxx</p><p>It starts off pretty regular, pretty normal.</p><p>Accounts payable, accounts receivable. Accounts accounts accounts. All week long all paperwork and no bodies to disembowel.</p><p>The slow trickle has left Zelda antsy. She’s been antsy all week and had semi-successfully managed to channel her restless energy into other ventures until this moment. </p><p>“Why don’t we go out to Scarsdale tonight?” Zelda says, pauses, looks at Hilda, almost contrite. “I promise to go with vodka instead of tequila so I might make better decisions.”</p>
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